


Sleeping In My Sister's Clothes

by callmejude



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Child Abuse, Crossdressing, Crossdressing Kink, Feminization, Genderplay, M/M, Makeup, Recreational Drug Use, Semi-Public Sex, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 21:52:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9348050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmejude/pseuds/callmejude
Summary: It starts when Elliot is young, as a curiosity. It does not get easier to understand as he gets older.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Florentium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Florentium/gifts).



It’s actually Darlene’s idea. Things usually are. That first time, she had been five years old, and Elliot had just turned nine. Too old to really be pushed around into situations like this, especially not from his little sister. But she shoves the soft navy dress into his arms and says, “ _You_ wear it,” so he does.

The dress had been a gift from an aunt, uninvolved in their lives and therefore incapable of recalling Darlene’s size or personal taste. It’s possible she considered it bad manners to show up at a funeral without gifts for the grieving children, but Darlene has never liked blue. She says it’s boring. Regardless, it would be at least another two years before their mother could force Darlene to wear this dress without it swallowing her. 

It fits Elliot well enough. A little tight in the collar, cutting higher into his throat than it would on someone smaller. Elliot tucks a finger in between the stiff blue fabric and his neck and gives a little tug, the way he sees people do in movies. It doesn’t help. The skirt ends just above his knees, meaning it would probably fall to Darlene’s ankles once she grew into it.

Even if Darlene liked blue, she’ll never like this dress. At five, she likes to show off the scrapes and scars she got on her legs from climbing trees.

For Elliot, the length feels strange. Too long for shorts, but too short for pants. He sits down over his legs and watches the skirt fan out to cover them, like a hen sitting on eggs.

Darlene giggles. “You make an ugly girl, Elliot.”

Elliot frowns. That’s not fair. “Maybe it’s just an ugly dress.”

Darlene laughs again, throwing her head back. Elliot likes to make her laugh. For a five-year-old girl she’s very serious, doesn’t laugh at much of anything, especially not in the last seven months. It always feels important, making her laugh.

“You’re right,” she says, getting to her feet, “One sec.”

Elliot waits, legs folded underneath him on the floor as Darlene disappears down the hall. She hadn’t said he couldn’t move, but he doesn’t, anyway. Just quietly plucking at the fabric of the skirt laying over his thighs.

She comes back holding a dress Elliot recognizes as their mother’s. Black and short with a deep scoop neck and a silver zipper down the back. It’s a bad idea, but Darlene is grinning at him.

“This one’s pretty. Try this one on.”

In some ways it feels less awkward than Darlene’s dress — the length, meant for a full-grown woman, reaches his feet — but the scoop neck drooping over his flat chest makes him feel distinctly masculine, and it drapes too low in places he lacks any sort of curve. It feels oddly embarrassing until Darlene cocks her head to one side and admits, “That’s better.”

Her acceptance is unexpected, and the back of Elliot’s neck gets hot as he changes out of it. He stomps quickly back into his jeans before he stashes it back in their mother’s closet, hurrying to do it before she comes home. 

It doesn’t happen again until Darlene is eleven. She’d grown to almost Elliot’s height the year before, and the two of them are tucked away in her closet, still feeling safe in hiding even after their mother has stormed out of the house. She’s looking up at the various outfits hanging from the closet rod, and Elliot doesn’t expect her to remember, but she does.

“Remember that gross blue dress Aunt Ruby bought me for the funeral?”

Elliot nods cautiously. “It didn’t even fit. You never wore it.”

“ _You_ did.”

Elliot says nothing. He looks at her, waiting for her to make a point, and she grabs the chain dangling from the lightbulb on the ceiling. 

“It was a really ugly dress,” she recalls, yanking a salmon pink dress off its hanger. “My pretty things will fit you now.”

She drops the dress in Elliot’s lap, and he has no response. It’s soft and simple, cinched a little in the waist with three-quarter sleeves and a slight V-neck. The dress ends halfway down Darlene’s thighs. That’s about where it will hang on Elliot, now, too. The closet isn’t big enough for them both to stand, so he waits for Darlene to crouch back beside him before standing to get out.

“Okay.”

It fits tighter against his body than his mother’s dress had, but more comfortably than the blue dress he’d stuffed himself into six years ago. He looks down at his knees and has to shake loose the thought that he should be wearing heels with this. Darlene never does. At eleven years old, Darlene hates heels. She has dusty pink converse she wears with nearly every outfit.

“Not such an ugly girl, after all,” Darlene scoffs. So she remembers that, too.

Elliot does an awkward turn, not quite a twirl — more just an attempt to see himself from the back. Darlene pulls a hand mirror off the top of her dresser and uses it to point to the full length mirror by her bed before handing it to him.

The dress dips slightly in the back. The back of Elliot’s neck itches. He bounces on his heels. He was too old to go along with this when he was nine. What excuse does he have at fifteen?

Darlene is watching him silently. When Elliot hands back her mirror, she says, “I don’t wear that dress anymore, if you want it.”

Without knowing why, Elliot stuffs the dress under his bed. He doesn’t wear it again in front of Darlene, but once or twice whenever their mother takes her to soccer practice, Elliot stands in front of his sister’s full length mirror and looks down at the peachy fabric stretched over his body frame.

The next year he has a growth spurt, and so does Darlene. They never spoke of the pink dress again, but for her birthday, their mother’s boyfriend at the time attempts to be fatherly and buys her a new white dress. It has long lace sleeves and a skirt that fans out just slightly. Darlene hates it. Without even discussing it with Elliot, she wraps it back up in its gift bag and leaves it on his bed.

He tucks the dress under his bed, where he’d kept the pink dress until it no longer fit him, and they don’t speak of it again for several weeks.

It’s after school but before their mother returns home from work, and the two of them are playing Crash Bash in the living room when Darlene asks, “Did’ya ever try that dress on?”

Elliot shakes his head, feeling embarrassed. It was one thing being given a dress after Darlene had strong-armed him into wearing it in the first place, but now it feels like a present specifically for him, as if she can see it in him, regardless of how little he tries to show.

“Let’s see how it looks,” Darlene insists.

She throws her controller down and twirls on her heel in one fluid motion. Elliot stays racing no one for a moment before he sets his controller down and follows after her. She’s rooting in his closet when he reaches his bedroom. Without a word he crouches at the foot of the bed and pulls the dusty gift bag out from underneath.

“You didn’t even really look at it,” Darlene tisks.

She snatches the bag from Elliot before he can respond and pulls the dress out from the flowerbed of tissue paper.

“Here,” she gives it a shake and thrusts it at Elliot, who still hasn’t said a word, “Try it on. Lemme see.”

Elliot’s already out of his pants before he realizes he should probably be shy. He gives a moment’s hesitation before shuffling into the dress. It doesn’t have a zip or buttons, so he just wriggles until he gets the heels of his palms out from the sleeves. When he tugs it down so that the skirt falls limp, it reaches his knees.

When he finally looks up from the skirt, Darlene is grinning at him. 

“You know what would help?”

Elliot doesn’t ask.

“Makeup.”

Elliot smirks, but the minute Darlene disappears from his room, he’s nervous. Darlene doesn’t have much makeup, outside of a few tubes of lipgloss that their mother lets her have. If she’s going to get makeup, she’s going into their mother’s room.

He’s still not sure, to this day, why he let her do it. Maybe he’s just as curious as Darlene. Maybe he wants her to think he could be pretty. Maybe he wants to be pretty, like their mother was before she got too angry to smile.

Darlene’s back with handfuls of their mother’s makeup before he can think of an excuse not to let her do it. She tugs him down by the wrist until they’re both sitting cross-legged on the floor. 

“Make a fish face,” she says, puckering her lips. “Like this.”

Elliot does, because arguing at this point is useless. It doesn’t matter. When she’s finished with the lipstick, she smiles. 

“Now you’re pretty!” she says excitedly. She lifts their mother’s compact mirror so Elliot can look at himself. “See?”

The lines are a little uneven. At twelve, Darlene has not yet mastered the art of cosmetics, but Elliot’s lips are coloured a dark burgundy and look softer than they normally do. His whole face looks different, now. Elliot tilts his head. He likes it. He smears his lips together like he’s seen their mother do and eyes himself.

He doesn’t say anything, but Darlene puts the compact down and says. “Okay now it’s time for blush and stuff.”

The blush is a bit sloppy, as she has no practice with it, but she’s old enough to understand colour. Elliot smiles when she lifts the compact to him again. “Want eye shadow?”

It’s the first time she’s asked his opinion, but Elliot knows the answer she wants, so he nods. 

“Sure.”

Darlene’s face lights up. Elliot smiles, feeling the lipstick stretch over his mouth. He likes this, being a good brother. He doesn’t get to do it often. Usually when their mother is angry Darlene’s the one who stands up for him, or pulls him into her closet to sing _Frère Jacques_ until their mother is done yelling and throwing things. He knows that because he’s older, he should be the one to do these things, but fear has always grabbed hold of him tighter than it does Darlene.

Darlene is figuring out how eye shadow smears against Elliot’s eyelids when the slam of the front door catches them both off guard. Their muscles freeze — unable to move, unable to hide. Elliot can feel his heartbeat in his ears, and Darlene is holding her breath. Crushed under the weight of knowing how much trouble they’re in now.

Something gives, and Elliot grabs Darlene by the arm and all but throws her into the closet. She’s about his size, but goes easily from the shock. She lands hard on her hip, but it’s nothing compared to the hiding she’d get if their mother found her. He’s being a good brother this time.

“Elliot!” Darlene shouts, but Elliot shushes her and slams the closet door shut. He can hear their mother heading for the door, and runs to the makeup, trying to close it all up so that at the very least she can’t tell how badly Darlene smeared and crumbled it right away. 

The door swings open and Elliot curls into himself, covering the pile of makeup on the floor. She sees him. The split second before she speaks stretches for an hour. Elliot can’t breathe.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

He’s hiding his face, but he can’t hide the dress. He clenches his eyes shut, instinctive, wishing he could sink into the floor. There’s no running now. No hiding. No escape. There’s nails digging into his arm before he hears her move. She jerks him to his feet and the makeup he had piled into his lap clatters to the floor.

“What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?”

Elliot doesn’t answer. She’s not asking for an answer. He’s learned that the hard way by now.

“Is that your sister’s?”

Elliot says nothing.

“Is that _mine?_ ” She scratches into the powder caked on his face.

Elliot flinches, but stays quiet. She hasn’t hit him yet, but she’s only waiting to pin the blame.

“Where the fuck is your Goddamn sister?”

And there it is. “An — Annie’s,” Elliot lies, hoping it’s believable enough that Darlene would’ve gone down the street to play with their neighbor so soon after their mother’s last episode.

It is. This now entirely Elliot’s fault, Elliot’s idea. On top of being a crossdresser, he’s now a thief, as well. She throws him back onto the floor and leaves the room to get the curling iron. Elliot doesn’t move, because he knows if he does, the punishment will only be worse. In the newfound silence of the room, he can hear Darlene sobbing behind the door. Elliot stares at his knees. He wishes she would leave — run out the window, maybe, and actually disappear into the safety of Annie’s house — but it’s probably better for her to stay where she is, now. Their mother won’t check the closet now that she has Elliot.

Thankfully, he can no longer hear Darlene crying by the time their mother comes back. Elliot stands, expecting to be told to strip. Instead she grabs hold of the back of the dress and rips upward, dragging it until it covers his face. 

It’s difficult for Elliot to breathe through the silky fabric, but when a jolt of hot metal digs into his ribs, is nearly impossible. Elliot thrashes and his knees give out. The grip on the dress doesn’t release, and it’s ripped the rest of the way off of him when he topples backward. His mother shakes the wad of silk and lace at him. 

“Why do you have this?”

He can’t tell if it’s a real question. He waits.

“Did you fucking steal it from Darlene? _Answer me._ ”

“Yes,” Elliot says softly, his eyes dropping to the floor.

His mother throws the curling iron into his side, and Elliot cries out. “Why? Why would you steal this? What kind of faggot are you?”

That one he knows isn’t a real question, but it’s one that’s been on his mind since this started. The answer falls out of his mouth without meaning to.

“I don’t know.”

The curling iron slams into the back of Elliot’s head. 

“I fucking _knew_ it,” she hisses at him, grabbing his arm and yanking him up so that she can force the iron into his side again. “Your father tried to tell me you were just fucking _sensitive_ , but I _knew._ If only he could see you now.”

It stings, and Elliot’s throat gets tight. 

“He —”

“Shut up.” His mother shakes him to cut him off, and Elliot doesn’t try to speak again. He can’t know how his father would react to this. He can’t know. It’s possible he’d hate him for this, just like she does.

“Are you going to cry? You really are a faggot, aren’t you?”

Probably. He doesn’t say anything.

She frowns. She’s either growing tired of toying with him or furious that he’s no longer answering. She likes when he tries to argue, when he tries to stand up for himself. It gives her more reason to punish him.

“Don’t you ever touch my makeup again,” she snarls at him. “You think you have any right to my things?”

Elliot shakes his head.

“When your sister gets home you get to tell her that you’re stealing her clothes like a pervert. Let her know you’re the reason this dress is ruined.” 

She hurls the wad of fabric at him. He inspects it, sticking his finger dully through a tiny rip between the bodice and the skirt. He nods. 

“You don’t leave this room until I tell you or I’ll heat it up again,” she tells him, lobbing the curling iron at him. It hits him in the arm, still hot enough to burn, and falls to the floor with a _thunk._ Elliot gives a final nod as she picks up her compacts and lipsticks from the floor.

“If I catch you playing faggot again I’ll kill you, do you understand me?”

Elliot’s eyes are burning. He can’t blink, or the tears will fall and she’ll hit him again. He swallows hard. “Yes.”

He flinches when the door slams behind her. He clenches his eyes shut, praying Darlene will stay in the closet. He doesn’t want to talk to her. He doesn’t want to look at her.

The closet door creaks open behind him, and a strangled sob bursts through Elliot’s teeth.

“Elliot —”

“Go out the window,” Elliot says without turning his head. “Go to Annie’s. Stay there tonight.”

She’s quiet for a moment. It’s always alarming when Darlene is quiet.

“No,” she says finally. “I’m gonna get you the aloe gel.”

She moves to walk past him, out the bedroom door, but Elliot grabs her wrist.

“Go out the window,” he repeats, teeth clenched. “ _Please._ ”

He must look as pathetic as he feels. Darlene looks at him pityingly for a second before she sighs.

“I’ll come back after mom’s asleep.” Elliot shakes his head, but Darlene tugs her wrist back from him and stamps her foot. “Yes I will. Deal with it.”

It’s the better than her staying. Elliot looks at the floor and listens to her creep out the window.

An hour or so later, Elliot is curled up against the closet door with his Gameboy when he hears a quiet _thunk_ of something landing on the floor. He looks up from the tiny screen to see a bottle of aloe gel lying sideways on the floor just beneath the window. By the time Elliot gets to look out the window, Darlene is nowhere to be seen. 

His mother doesn’t come back for him, but Darlene does. She crawls back in through the window some time after their mother has fallen asleep and curls up next to him in bed.

They lie next to each other in silence for a while. Elliot wants to sleep, but it’s always too hard to get comfortable lying on fresh burns. It’s quiet for so long he assumes Darlene’s asleep before her voice cuts through the dark. 

“Elliot?”

He hesitates before answering. “Mm?”

“Why do you let me dress you up like a girl?”

Elliot swallows. He still doesn’t have an answer. “I dunno.”

“Do you like boys?”

She’s always been so blunt. Always Elliot’s polar opposite. He shrugs a shoulder, but doesn’t know if Darlene can see. 

“I dunno,” he repeats.

“Shouldn’t you know by now?”

He probably should. His classmates all seem to. “I guess,” he says after a moment. “But I don’t.”

He can hear the shuffling sound of her roll over to face him, but there’s not enough light to see more than a shadow of her silhouette propped up over the mattress.

“It’s okay if you do,” she tells him. “I won’t tell mom.”

Elliot says nothing to that. He hears the soft flump of her drop back down against the bed.

“I don’t think dad would’ve cared.”

There’s no way she can know that. Elliot is almost sure that he would have. But it doesn’t matter. Throat raw against his shuddering breath, Elliot reaches over and pulls her to him. It hurts the burns on his arms and side to squeeze her so close, but he ignores it. He drops his face against her shoulder and takes a deep breath. Darlene doesn’t say anything else.

They fall asleep that way, and their mother doesn’t come for them in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

The subject doesn’t come up again until Darlene is seventeen. Elliot lives in a two-bedroom walk-up in Brooklyn that he usually shares with Angela. Angela spends most of her nights sleeping over at boyfriends’ places when she has them. Elliot never likes her boyfriends, and never really likes that she’s gone, but he doesn’t want to start a fight, so he never brings it up.

He hasn’t seen Darlene in two years when she shows up at his door on Halloween night. It takes him a moment to even recognize her, now that she’s past her awkward, lanky adolescent stage. She pops through the door and gives him a quick hug, but doesn’t mention how long it’s been. Elliot knows well enough to follow suit.

“Come out with me,” she says, more an order than an offer. “I got invited to a party up here and don’t wanna go alone.”

“I don’t have a costume,” Elliot argues lamely, but Darlene tosses her backpack at him.

“I got you covered, bro,” she says with a wink.

Elliot’s not sure he likes that.

The costume she has for him is an emerald green halter gown, silk that drags over his hands like water. There’s no way she got this for the intention of a costume. It doesn’t even feel right for Elliot to hold it.

“What is this?”

Darlene laughs. “Think of it as the last two Christmas and birthday presents, if you have to.”

That just makes this more awkward. “I — I don’t…”

“C’mon, Elliot, don’t be a chickenshit. We don’t have to worry about mom all the way out here.” Elliot looks up from the dress, chewing at the corner of his lip. “If anyone asks, it’s Halloween. It’s just for fun. You’re not gonna be the only guy there in drag.”

_Drag_ always seemed like something different than what Elliot was doing, when he wore dresses. Drag is for other people rather than his own comfort. A performance. He looks back down at the dress and doesn’t argue.

“Is this yours?” Elliot asks, voice hoarse.

“Nope. Yours. I said that already. C’mon, put it on so I can do your makeup.”

Elliot flinches, but Darlene grabs his arm and drags him to the bathroom. “She’s never gonna know, Elliot. This is _my_ makeup.”

Together in the bathroom, Darlene helps him into it, hooking the collar of the halter around his nape and adjusting the backless edge with a light tug. Elliot doesn’t look up at the mirror, staring down at the dark silk falling just below his bony knees. His feet are bare and stick out ugly and flat from what he can see.

Darlene waves her pallette in front of Elliot’s eyes. “Lemme do your face.”

She hoists herself up on the counter with her back to the bathroom mirror and motions for Elliot to step in close. Elliot keeps his eyes on her to avoid catching a glimpse of himself before she’s done. He doesn’t want to back out. Darlene always likes dressing him up. He likes to make her smile.

In the five years since the last time she’s done this, Darlene has become quite skilled at the art of application. Without even looking at himself, Elliot can feel it in the way she uses the brushes, can see it in the look on her face. Her hand moves deftly to press the colour against his skin, more assured than it had been before. She uses a liner before colouring in his lips or brushing shadow over his eyelids. Elliot has to be still much longer than he had before. When he shifts his weight, anxious, Darlene tisks.

“Quit moving, I’ll fuck it up.”

When she puts the pallette and liners back in her makeup bag, Elliot sits back, thinking she’s done.

“Wait,” she says, rooting around in her bag for something else. She pulls out mascara, and Elliot realizes for the first time how different this lipstick is from their mother’s. He doesn’t feel it crack with the stretch of his face when he blanches.

“I don’t —”

“Your eyelashes are already crazy long,” Darlene interrupts before Elliot can turn her down. “This just makes ‘em darker. Trust me. World of difference.”

Elliot’s still too afraid to look in the mirror. Stalling couldn’t hurt. He nods, and Darlene grins at him. “All right, chin down, eyes up.”

It takes a moment for Elliot to get the pose right, and when he does, Darlene grabs his chin. “Right there. Now look up, like, as far as you can.”

Mascara feels strange. He doesn’t feel the weight of it as Darlene puts it on like he had the other things. The brush is light and delicate against his lashes, barely even there. Elliot doubts it makes much of a difference, but when she’s done, Darlene whistles.

“You look good,” she says without irony.

It gives Elliot the courage to finally meet his eyes in the mirror, but at the sight, he drops his eyes back to his feet. Darlene hefts back from the sink and lands both feet pointedly on the floor.

“Aw, Elliot, c’mon. I spent more time on this than I do my own face. Would you enjoy yourself for five damn seconds?”

Guilty, Elliot looks back at himself. Darlene did his eyes much like hers are done, smoky and dramatic against the blue of his eyes. She was right about the mascara. His eyes have softened, framed better by the long, dark lashes and soft greys at the corners of his eyes. His mouth is the same rich wine colour of his mother’s that Darlene had used on him before. His lips stand out stark against his skin, making him look paler than he is.

His teeth look whiter, when he smiles.

Darlene claps his shoulder excitedly. “Told you,” she says with a laugh, “Now lemme get your shoes and I can get to work on my costume.”

Elliot blinks. “My shoes?”

Darlene scoffs, snatching her backpack out of the hallway and pawing her way through it. 

“You didn’t think I was gonna just let you wear your muddy converse with your nice new dress, did you?”

Elliot tamps down the urge to thank her. It would seem strange, to be so on board with this. He should probably act as if he _wants_ to wear his muddy converse, but before he can react, Darlene hands him dark grey kitten heels.

“I didn’t want to get you anything too high. I figured you’d never worn them before.”

_Definitely don’t thank her._

“Right.”

“I kinda guessed your size,” she says as Elliot takes them from her, “But I’m pretty sure these’ll fit.”

Elliot blinks at her. “You bought these _for_ me?”

“Well yeah,” Darlene says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Your feet are like, _way_ bigger than mine, dumbass.”

Elliot looks back down at them. He has nothing else to say, so he places them on the floor and gingerly steps into them.

It’s not a very dramatic change to his vantage point, but it’s still noticeable enough that it sends a rush of air out of his lungs. With Darlene only in running shoes, he can see over her head. He hasn’t been taller than her since they were children. He taps his fingernails against the counter, fascinated that it’s lower than it had been a moment ago. He looks at his feet and grins. His legs no longer stick out large and ugly against the silk of the dress. His calves curve gracefully against the angle of the shoes. His knees don’t even seem as knobby.

Darlene is still smiling when she says, “Okay now get out. I gotta change, too.” Elliot turns, fully expecting to stumble, but when he hesitates Darlene adds gently, “Walk on your toes.”

The first step is a little shaky, but by the time he’s left the bathroom, he’s caught on well enough. Still curious, he wanders into Angela’s room. She has a full length mirror on the inside of her door.

Seeing it all at once, he barely even recognizes himself. He turns to see the wide dip in the dress and doesn’t recognize his own skin. He’s always felt bony and gawky, long past the years when it was expected, but surrounded by soft green silk, the outline of his spine seems graceful. The skirt even gives him the illusion of hips where he knows there are none. His feet look smaller in the heels, his shoulders more sloped in the dress. Everything is different.

He’s not sure how long he’s been staring back at himself when Darlene tilts the door open and his reflection slides away. He takes a step back, automatically embarrassed, feeling caught. It takes him a moment to remember Darlene is the one who dressed him this way. She’s wearing a short black wig and ratty pink bridesmaid’s dress, and grins at him when he looks up from the floor.

“Ready to go?”

Elliot shrugs. “Sure.”

The party is in an abandoned warehouse in the meatpacking district, lit up with glowsticks, lava lamps and strobes. The cobwebs and dust on the windows is all real, but the jack-o-lanterns lined up along the window sills makes it all look planned. They can hear the DJ blasting electronic music from the street, and Elliot can feel the heat of the dancing crowd from outside. He wonders briefly how Darlene got invited to a party like this before she’s technically old enough to be here. He doesn’t ask. 

When they get inside, Elliot instantly curls into his hoodie, wishing he had some way to cover up the rest of him. He feels desperately exposed, as if wearing a giant neon sign that just reads _faggot._ He should never have agreed to this. He wants to go home. Maybe he can convince Darlene to rekindle their old Halloween tradition of just eating candy and watching _The Careful Massacre of the Bourgeoisie._

He must’ve said something aloud, because Darlene says, “We can watch it when we get home. Stop worrying as if mom’s around the corner.” She gives him a gentle push, and Elliot steps heavily in his new shoes. “You’re fine. Take a seat, I’ll get us some punch and try and find Daniel.”

Elliot doesn’t know Daniel, and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to meet him while wearing a dress. He’s certain he doesn’t want Darlene to leave him alone like this, but she’s already gone by the time he turns around. He sits on one of the couches far away from any of the throngs of people. He fiddles anxiously with the hem of his skirt to avoid making eye contact.

A drink floats abruptly in front of his face, and he flinches, holding back the instinct to knock it away.

“Christ, you’re jumpy,” Darlene’s voice shouts over the beat. “Here, take two. You gotta relax.”

“Fuck you,” Elliot snaps back.

Still, he doesn’t refuse the offer and slams back both cups that she hands him. Darlene laughs.

“ _That’s_ the spirit. Gimme your hoodie, I’m gonna check it while I go look for Danny.”

The idea of taking his hoodie off is downright horrifying. “No, I’ve got it.”

Darlene rolls her eyes. “Oh my God, come on. It’s a million degrees in here and it’s a fucking Halloween party. Live a little and show off your damn shoulders.”

“No,” Elliot answers petulantly. He flinches when Darlene tugs at his hood. She’s pouting at him now.

“Come on, all that work for nothing?”

“It’s not for nothing,” Elliot grumbles, “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Darlene slumps dramatically over the back of the couch. She’s already checked her coat at the door. He scans the room for anyone else covering up, but even the suit costumes he sees milling around are almost all without jackets. Elliot looks down at his lap and fiddles with the hoodie’s zipper.

“That dress was three-hundred bucks,” Darlene says with a huff, “And you’re covering it up with the fifteen dollar hoodie you’ve had since 9th grade.”

Elliot wonders how Darlene got three hundred dollars of disposable income, but he won’t ask. Knowing her, it probably isn’t anything he wants to hear.

“What if I trade you,” Darlene offers brightly, pulling a polka dot coin purse out of her bra. She gives it a little shake, as if Elliot should know what’s inside it. “The hoodie for a Xanax?”

A Xanax would help, at least. Darlene pulls the little white bar out of a tin in her purse and waves it in front of his face. 

“C’mooooon,” she whines, “You’ll forget all about it in a few minutes, anyway.”

She’s right. With narrowed eyes and a very pointed sigh, Elliot shuffles out of his hoodie. Darlene squeals excitedly and snatches it from him before he’s completely removed his arms. She kisses his temple, and Elliot jerks back. Rolling her eyes, Darlene presses the pill into Elliot’s hand.

“Loosen up, I’ll be back in a bit.”

Outside of the safety of his apartment, this dress is no better than being naked. It’s agonizing. The whole building is vibrating — the music clanging in his skull. He should have never agreed to this. He shouldn’t have come. He barely has enough punch left in the last cup to chase the Xanax down his throat. He swallows hard and drops his head back against the couch, waiting for the calm to wash over him.

After a minute it hits all at once, warm weight dragging his limbs, making it harder to lift his head than it had been a moment ago. The music has started to bleed into him, less like a solid presence and more like something in the air, something he breathes. Elliot glances over his shoulder to see if he can find Darlene in the crowd. She’s nowhere to be found, but his eyes meet a tall man with broad shoulders and dark skin standing against the wall dressed as a mobster from the 30s in a double breasted pinstripe suit and fedora hat.

The guy doesn’t play coy and look away, instead smiling widely right back at Elliot. There’s no one else tucked away in the corner with him. The only reason this stranger could be standing here is that he wants to talk to Elliot.

“Can I help you?” Elliot’s words slur together, understandable but slippery, and the man chuckles.

“I can hope,” he answers, sidling over to sit next to Elliot on the couch.

Elliot hadn’t offered him a seat, and the man is close enough that they’re almost touching. Elliot looks down at the empty cup in his hand and frowns.

“Here, take mine,” the man hands over his own cup, and Elliot tips it into his mouth just as he realizes he shouldn’t. He hands it back, unsettled by his own hastiness. The guy smiles takes a swig, too, to allay Elliot’s fear of being drugged. He makes a loud _ahh_ when pulling the cup back from his face. His strong features fall easily into a sweet smile.

“So, your girl dress you up this year, or what?”

It takes a moment for the question to make sense. This man must’ve been watching Elliot for some time. He wasn’t standing there when Darlene was here. At the thought of being watched, Elliot lets out an uneasy laugh that comes out more like a huff of breath. 

“My sister,” he corrects shortly. “She did.” He doesn’t add that he likes it. Nobody needs to know that.

The guy raises his eyebrows and smirks. He holds out his hand for Elliot to take. “Marcus.”

“Elliot,” Elliot mutters back several seconds before cautiously taking Marcus’s hand. Marcus doesn’t shake it, instead gently dragging the tips of his fingers over the inside of Elliot’s wrist. It makes the hair at the back of Elliot’s neck stand on end.

“You look good,” he takes a breath, “Elliot.” Marcus’s voice is silky and deep. Elliot feels it like the music, soaked into the air rather than pressing around him. He smiles, and Marcus leans forward to be heard. His breath tickles against Elliot’s ear.

“You want another drink?”

Elliot nods, a little giddy from the attention. He expects Marcus to get up and leave, but the hand still holding his wraps tight around his wrist and helps him up with a tug.

“C’mon, then. Don’t want someone else snappin’ you up while I’m gone.”

Warmth blooms at the pit of Elliot’s stomach, cut with a twisting with a sliver of shame. It’s a little harder to focus on walking in heels with the Xanax and alcohol in his blood, but Marcus rests his hand against the small of Elliot’s back and helps lead him to the bar. 

If Darlene is anywhere close by, Elliot doesn’t see her. He feels Marcus’s hand slide down to his hip and stumbles, flustered, but all Marcus does is wink, laugh lines crinkling around wide, dark brown eyes.

The first drink Marcus buys him is just a beer, and has little difference on Elliot’s nerves as he sits nursing it on the unsteady barstool, but he has the nerve to ask for martini by the time he’s finished it. 

When Marcus orders for them, he slides his hand up Elliot’s leg and says, “And a martini for my pretty little date, here.”

Elliot doesn’t finish the martini, instead crawling into Marcus’s lap to kiss him. The silk of the dress drags between them and Elliot’s head spins when he moves too fast. The two of them nearly topple off the barstool, but Marcus’s hands are wide and strong, one catching the side of the bar while the other helps maneuver Elliot into a comfortable position, splayed facing Marcus over his knee. When he lets go of the bar to hold onto Elliot, his fingers almost meet at Elliot’s spine. Elliot’s skin is tingling wherever the silk catches against Marcus’s hands.

It feels so good to be touched with his mind as foggy as it is, and he groans, hips rutting as he drops his head against Marcus’s shoulder. The barstool shudders, and Marcus laughs, grabbing at the bar again.

“You wanna get outta here, huh?”

Elliot nods, nails digging into the back of Marcus’s neck. He expects Marcus to push him to the floor so he can stand, but instead he presses Elliot close to his chest until his feet hit the floor, letting Elliot find his feet slowly. Head buzzing and heart pounding, Elliot leans into Marcus as he’s led to the bathrooms with a hand against the small of his back.

When they get to the bathroom, Marcus tries to lead them to a stall, but Elliot’s too impatient, clawing at his arms and walking backward until his back hits the door. 

“Want someone to walk in on us, baby?”

Elliot nods. The idea of someone seeing him getting fucked against the wall while dressed like this makes his cock twitch. At first glance he could be mistaken for a woman. Dressed like this, he can almost see his mother, in the mirror.

“I wanna —” His words are slurring. He glances toward the mirror, embarrassed. “I wanna see.”

Marcus raises his eyebrows, teeth flashing white against dark brown lips. “You’re a freaky motherfucker.” He laughs. Before dread can set in, he adds with a grin, “I’mma definitely need your number later.”

Elliot giggles, taken off-guard, but doesn’t say anything, instead pulling on Marcus’s arm. Marcus tosses his hat onto the counter, braids falling from where they were tucked underneath, and hoists Elliot up by his waist. He sits back against the counter, giving Elliot a full view of them in the mirror, balanced comfortably over Marcus’s hips.

Wriggling out of his blazer, Marcus asks, “How’s that, baby?”

Skin burning hot, Elliot whines. He shuffles so that Marcus can push the pinstripe pants down his hips. His cock springs up from the confines of his boxers, and Elliot is curious how long he’s been hard. Elliot splays his hand below Marcus’s navel. Before Elliot can maneuver out of his boxers, Marcus reaches up his dress and strips them off, tossing them under the sink. 

“Kinda surprised you ain’t wearin’ nothin’ lacy underneath,” Marcus says with a teasing air.

“I — I would’ve,” Elliot admits, breathless. “I wanted to.”

He hadn’t actually thought of it, before now. But at the sight of his boxers, he wishes he’d worn something pretty under his dress. Lace or silk, something to leave stashed in the back of Marcus’s car.

“Always next time,” Marcus says with a wink, sliding his hand up Elliot’s dress.

The feel of silk dragging up his thigh is like downing a shot. His head spins, cloudy and warm, and he leans forward, covering Marcus’s mouth with his own. He can feel the slick of his lipstick smear against Marcus’s mouth, but Marcus only moans against the kiss, wide hands cupping Elliot’s ass and pushing him up into his hip. Marcus doesn’t pause the kiss, pulling a little plastic packet of lube out of his pocket while Elliot slips his tongue into his mouth. Marcus’s hand returns cold to Elliot’s ass, but when he whimpers, Marcus only shushes against his mouth.

“It’ll be good, baby, be patient.”

Elliot nods, eyes lingering on the lipstick smeared over Marcus’s mouth. He likes being called _baby._ He can almost pretend Marcus is someone who loves him, or that they’re both different people, different people who have been in love for years.

He glances up at the mirror while Marcus opens the packet with both hands. Marcus looks nothing like his father, but Elliot looks so much like his mother had, he can still pretend. His parents had loved each other, once. In a time he doesn’t recall, a time before he was born, most likely.

Fingers slide inside him, tight and slick. Elliot whines, and Marcus pulls his face back down, meeting his eyes. “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.”

Elliot nods, wriggling his hips. He wants this. He wants to be fucked, wants Marcus to come, wants it to feel good. Being high, it makes it easier. Marcus’s fingers press in deep, and his nerves light awake, pleasure rocketing up his spine.

“That’s it,” Marcus whispers. Elliot must have made a noise. “That’s it, baby, relax, just like that.”

Elliot’s mouth falls open, but he can’t speak. He rocks back hard into Marcus’s hand. His skin feels electric, on fire. He can feel blood racing through his veins. His eyes fall on his reflection, flushed and dazed, makeup smeared. He’s embarrassed, but Marcus’s free hand touches his face, guides him back down to look at him. He twists the hand inside Elliot and makes him cry out, helpless.

“Hey, beautiful. Tell me what you need.”

_Beautiful._ Elliot wants to be beautiful.

Marcus thinks he’s beautiful.

“Fuck me,” falls out of Elliot’s mouth, too helpless for it to be shy. “Please fuck me.”

“That’s it,” Marcus answers. 

He free hand shuffles in his pocket again and pulls out a condom. He holds it up to Elliot’s lips. “Use your pretty little mouth to open that for me, will you baby?” 

Elliot complies, ripping the package open with this teeth. Marcus smiles, pulling the hand from inside Elliot to slide the condom on. Elliot whines, bucking back against nothing, but Marcus’s soft hands circle loose around his waist and jostle him quickly onto his cock. Elliot’s head swims with the movement. Everywhere their skin connects is like a buzz of electricity. He can barely think. 

Marcus perches Elliot carefully just on top of his dick and asks, voice reedy, “Ready for me, pretty boy?”

Elliot nods, blood rushing through his ears. 

When Marcus pulls him down, it’s as if a vacuum pulls all the air from the room. Elliot’s vision blurs and he falls forward. Marcus is breathing. He presses his mouth to Marcus’s, trying to catch his breath from Marcus’s lungs.The hands on his hips frame his face, and he can’t stop shivering. Every touch is dragging along the tripwire of too much. Why can’t he breathe?

_Pretty boy._

Elliot’s eyes find the mirror again. His makeup is smeared and his hair is plastered to his brow. The dress is hanging empty from his chest and his lipstick has dragged over his mouth, but his eyes are bright and he could almost be his mother, if he squints. He looks down at Marcus, dark colour smeared over his mouth, and it makes Elliot desperate. He did that. He did that, to this man he doesn’t know, and he loves it.

Elliot pushes back against Marcus’s cock and cries out, voice high pitched and needy. Marcus’s hand reaches up to cup Elliot’s face, hips bucking into him. 

“That’s it baby. Look at yourself, you look so pretty.”

Elliot’s cock twitches as he ruts back against Marcus’s cock, looking back at them reflected in the mirror. He’s a mess, now. Dress bunched and sweaty, pooling over his hips. His face isn’t perfect anymore. His mother’s makeup never smeared. But maybe it had in the beginning, when she and his father had been in love, and had no children to hide their sex from. Back at a time when they had wanted it. Maybe back then, his mother’s lipstick had left reddish smudges all over his father’s face.

“Fuck —” Elliot says without thinking. Marcus takes it as a challenge. His hips piston into Elliot hard enough to nearly knock him unsteady. Elliot’s nails dig into Marcus’s shoulders, and he realizes that if he’d had acrylic nails like his mother had, they’d be able to have a sturdier grip.

He wishes he’d had them, too. Wishes they were painted the same red as his lips, and he could leave deep little crescents in Marcus’s skin. Maybe he could scratch hard enough to leave marks.

Marcus holds Elliot’s waist tight as his hips move, never giving Elliot the chance to fall as he fucks into him hard enough for the thoughts to slide out of his head. Fear, anxiety. None of it really matters, now. He entertains the thought of his father having this power over his mother, able to tame her — fuck her docile. Elliot says something, but he’s not sure what it is. Whatever it is makes Marcus move one of the hands from his hip to the back of Elliot’s neck. Calming.

“God,” Marcus huffs, breathless, “You’re so damn pretty.”

Elliot loses track of himself. Limbs heavy, but numb. His skin is buzzing but his vision goes blurry and white. He says something else, but he can’t tell what it is. Marcus pulls him down for a kiss. Maybe he was asking.

A hand, warm and heavy wraps around his cock, catching the corner of silk in its grip as Elliot whimpers against Marcus’s mouth. 

Marcus is breathing heavy into Elliot’s mouth. “You gonna stain your dress?”

“ _Yes._ ”

Elliot’s voice doesn’t sound like his own. Shrill and high; feminine. He just wants to come. He wants to do as Marcus says.

“That’s it,” Marcus says, as if he can read Elliot’s mind. His hand is slick and solid as it moves over his skin. “Stain your pretty dress for me, baby. C’mon.”

The world spins, flooding white as Elliot loses track of his own body. Everything is too bright, too much. His senses overload, just along the razor edge of sensation, and he cries out against Marcus’s neck as his body falls entirely slack.

Marcus’s hand is still sliding over Elliot’s cock as Elliot comes back to himself, trembling. He feels too good to ask for Marcus to stop. Marcus is still hard, and he whimpers, pushing back against his cock.

“Come,” he whimpers, voice raw, “Come — come in me. Pl — please.”

Marcus is starting to lose his cool, babbling against Elliot’s ear as Elliot struggles to catch his breath against Marcus’s chest.

“Want me to fill you up, baby? That feel good?”

Elliot nods, dizzy as he paws helplessly against Marcus’s neck and chest. 

“Yeah.” he wheezes, desperate, “Please — please fill me.”

He’s completely at Marcus’s mercy, but part of him feels incredibly powerful as Marcus’s hips pump into him, holding him down firmly as he comes. Elliot’s head is swimming, foggy, and for a dizzy, unreal moment, Elliot entertains the idea of if they had done this bareback, finding out weeks from now that Marcus may have impregnated him.

Reality shakes him back into himself without warning. Marcus is still breathing heavy against his ear, and Elliot lifts his head to look at himself. Sweat has streaked the makeup around his eyes, and his lips are almost naked, having smeared all the colour onto Marcus’s stained mouth.

Legs shaking, Elliot drags himself up and onto the filthy tile floor. He’s disappointed no one walked in on them; saw what they were doing. They had been beautiful.

“I —”

He has no idea what to say. Marcus is silent as he rearranges himself back into his slacks, but his eyes are dark and focused on Elliot’s face. It’s like he knows. Elliot’s probably not as good at hiding it as he wants to be.

“My sister’s probably looking for me.”

Marcus’s mouth twitches. “Yeah,” he says with a dry hint of humor, “Obviously.”

When Elliot turns toward the door, Marcus grabs his arm. Before Elliot can panic, he pulls a felt-tip pen from his pocket and scribbles a ten-digit number over his arm.

“No pressure,” Marcus tells him, capping the pen and slipping it back into his pocket, “But I like you, Elliot.”

Elliot stares at the number scrawled over his skin and nods, silent. When he looks up at Marcus, his mouth is still streaked with wine-red lip colour. He says nothing. When he stumbles back out into the dance floor, Darlene finds him in an instant.

“I’ve been looking…” she trails off, taking in Elliot’s frazzled appearance.

“Holy _shit_ , did you hook up?” Her fingers are wrapped tight around Marcus’s number, and it takes her a moment to notice. When she does, her face lights up. “Oh my God, you _did_!”

Elliot says nothing, but Darlene doesn’t need him to. “Are you gonna call — call them?”

“No.”

There’s no point. His bravery is gone. Maybe the Xanax is wearing off. Or the alcohol. Or maybe he’s just coming down from his orgasm. Either way, it can never happen again. He knows Darlene was vague with pronouns on purpose, which he’s grateful for, but Darlene deserves to know, anyway. She’s always wondered. 

“He won’t like me sober.”

Darlene takes notice of the _he_ but rolls her eyes anyway. “You’re such a chickenshit.”

That’s mercifully the end of the conversation. Elliot’s relieved when she changes the subject, “Your makeup looks like shit, now.” She runs her finger under Elliot’s eye and sighs. “And that come is gonna stain your dress.” Elliot looks down, the shame — sudden and jagged — stabbing deep into his gut. He crosses his arms over his chest, in no way covering the stains, but the best he can do to hide himself. Darlene merely seems to find it funny. She’s smiling at him. “You should call him.”

Elliot shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He looks back toward the bathroom door, but Marcus is nowhere to be seen. He rubs his hand absently over his opposite arm, and Darlene groans.

“Fine,” she says, grabbing his wrist and pulling him toward the coat check, “I guess you earned it.”

Darlene needles him for more information the whole way home, but Elliot only shrugs and gives one-word answers until she gives up. They end the night watching _The Careful Massacre of the Bourgeoisie_ and splitting a bowl. Darlene doesn’t bring it up again, and they sit in relative silence until Elliot goes to strip his dress and remembers his boxers are still crumpled under the sink in the bathroom of the warehouse.

Darlene notices his hesitance. The thought occurs to her after a moment, and she raises her eyebrows with a smirk.

“Did you give ‘em to him, like a trophy,” she asks teasingly, “or just forget them on the floor like a varsity cheerleader?”

Elliot doesn’t say anything. He stares down at his feet, long since bare, the heels left just beside the door the moment they got home. He remembers wishing he’d worn something different under the dress. Feminine and sexy. He frowns and tilts his head, thinking.

“How do I wash this?” he asks Darlene before he says something incriminating. 

“Cold water in the sink,” Darlene answers, “It should be fine. So where are your boxers?”

“Shut up.”

Darlene takes a hit from the pipe. The smoke billows out of her mouth along with the suggestion, “You should definitely call him.”

Elliot says nothing. After Darlene goes to sleep, Elliot opens his laptop and buys a black lace pair of underwear. He wipes his history, deletes the confirmation email, and washes Marcus’s number off his arm.

**Author's Note:**

> title from "Quinine" by Dessa


End file.
